


Francine Westernorth

by hollowmagic



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Horror, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28895073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowmagic/pseuds/hollowmagic
Summary: I’ve made a grave mistake, and it was the best decision of my life.
Relationships: Francine Westernorth/Protagonist
Kudos: 1





	Francine Westernorth

She was a rotten little thing when I first met her.

Crawling on the floor like a headless worm, sniffing the diseased-ridden floor like a watchdog on the job, Francine Westernorth was a stain on white clothing. She smelled like rotting meat and acted like a feral animal. The events of our meeting are oh-so clear. I remember her face -- the Mona Lisa of the hideous, of the damned. A lady such as she is rarer than the most endangered species.

Yet, and yet, she is the wicked witch of the west, whose casted spell has trapped me in a vision of adornment. I retch at the thought of her, but yet my heart is a racehorse, charging for the finish line. She haunts my dreams and twists my life into a never ending nightmare. With her foul yellow teeth and maggot-infested soul, Francine Westernorth ushers me ever so closer to my death.

“Gudk morkning, sweetkie,” she will greet. The raggedy breath of such a voice sends fear crawling through my nerves and turns my bones stone cold without fail. I give a frightened gasp and a finger presses against my lips. “It odkay,” she will say, as I will gaze, petrified, into medusa-like pupils. “It me.”

Yes. Her.

My precious nightmare.

My Francine Westernorth.

My darling, my stain on white clothing, my zombie.

“The blookd moon ikd here, sweetkie.”

Her words are nothing but love, and yet her eyes are that of a corpse. The day I entered this cemetery, she had no legs. I screamed bloody murder when she charged at me. My legs refused to move. Now she has my legs. She loves my legs, her love blooms from my legs. They don’t fit her perfectly.

A crimson glow shines down on us in our grave. Commotion of dirt and familiar groaning begin to fill the burial ground.

“Come onk,” Francine Westernorth presses. Grabbing my hand, I am lifted from my grave. “Juskt like old timekes.”

“Yesh,” I grunt. I can feel my guts falling out. “Jusht like old timesh.”

Together, she and our family, we roam, a pack of wolves heading for sheep. The time has come.

I wouldn’t trade the world for her. My Francine Westernorth.


End file.
